may god have mercy
by lastofthecrimelords
Summary: upon the dauntless' return to port royal, james norrington is paranoid and jack sparrow is devious, clumsy and irritating – although admittedly that's nothing new.


Disclaimer: Well, then, I confess. It is my intention to commandeer PotC, pick up the characters in Port

A/N: I'm fairly new to Fanfiction; so far all I've written is depressing poetry and obscure, ambiguous vignettes. This is my first actual narrative, and my first PotC fic. So be nice. Please? And review. Reviews are love. xx

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><p>The time was approaching twelve hours, but James Norrington's mind was not yet at rest. Sleep refused to come to him. It was a dark night, a murderous night, and the storm of the previous day had seemingly not yet passed; indeed, the scent of damp still hung in the salt-stained air, beads of moisture clinging to the fabric of shirts and red coats like miniature pearls, giving the wearer an almost spectral look, and the icy slap of the waves against the Dauntless's hull was hollow and echoing. The air was still, no breeze to trouble it.<p>

James pushed open the door of his cabin and stepped out into the chill night air, suppressing a shiver. He detested weather such as this – cold and clammy, without frost or a bite to the wind, nothing but suffocating dampness that crawled chokingly into one's throat. Why he had left his cabin he could not say, other than that he had been restless, unable to concentrate in the cloying heat of the room, his mind occupied by thoughts of the man who had so recently been taken on to the ship, and the fear that he was, even now, planning one of his famous and ridiculously elaborate escape schemes.

It was, he thought, a perfectly logical fear. After Sparrow had twice picked the lock on the cell door, the first time using a knife hidden up his sleeve, the second with a pin taken from one of his many dreadlocks and braids, Norrington had – after persuasion from both Sparrow himself and Lieutenant Groves (who, Norrington thought, looked upon the pirate with something that was far too close to hero-worship for James' liking) – allowed him to roam freely around the deck. "I'm on a ship full of naval officers in the middle of the Caribbean ocean," he had reminded the Commodore dryly. "Where the bloody hell do you think I'm going to go?"

James had attempted to place his own worries at rest. The man had thwarted the noose twice; he would surely not survive a third encounter. But the paranoia would not desert him. Even reading, a pleasure that had been recently stolen by the stress of the constant duties given to him, and which lack of time had prevented him from indulging in, held no peace tonight. The words, in defiance of his unwavering perusal, had danced like silent, interloping spiders across the pages, haunted by the flickering candlelight that chased them. He wanted, needed, to ensure that all was as it should be. And if it was not…well, that bridge would be crossed once it arose.

The wooden boards moaned beneath his boots as he stepped out into the night, staring out into the fathomless gloom surrounding him. Other than the sound of the waves and the constant, ululating creak of the sails, it was totally silent. He first squinted, then widened his eyes, attempting to make out the slender shape of that figure, or, failing that, the crown of braids, beads and trinkets that was instantly recognisable to the trained eye. But as hard as he looked, he saw nothing. The deck was deserted.

Jack Sparrow was gone.

James felt a flutter of unease pass through his stomach. Oh, God, please don't let him have escaped. If the pirate was gone, it was certain he would be held to blame. The ball of anxiousness resting beneath his ribs tightened, and he bit his lip, glancing around frantically, pacing from the centre of the deck to the edge, scanning the whole ship – then at last let his breath out with a long, and almost audible, sigh of relief, as he finally spotted Sparrow knelt over one of the longboats tied up at the side of the ship. He had been hidden by the curve of the wood, which was why James had not immediately noticed him.

Quietly, James moved closer. Sparrow didn't seem to hear him. For a reason James could easily guess at, he appeared to be untying the knots that fastened the boat to an iron hook, his brown fingers slipping quickly and expertly through the rope in a complex pattern as he tugged the woven strings in and out of one another. The first rope slowly unravelled. He moved on to the second, calmly and methodically.

As silently as he could, James approached, placing his feet down gently toe-first to ensure no sound was made. Once he was directly behind the man, he put his hands on his hips and announced in an icy tone, placing a goodly amount of emphasis on the first word, "What exactly do you think you are doing?"

Sparrow jumped and fell over backwards with a very undignified yelp. Scrambling to regain his balance, he then rolled over and glanced up to view his assailant. His dark eyes widened upon recognition. He scrambled hastily to his feet and pressed his back against the side of the ship, trying to hide the sight of the now unfastened boat with his legs – a somewhat futile endeavour, as it was rather too large to successfully conceal, and only resulted in him overbalancing and being forced to grab hold of the side of the ship for support, his knees wobbling. He stared up at Norrington.

"Hello," he offered, apparently attempting to salvage the situation, and continued in spite of Norrington's implacable expression, "Good – um – evening, or early morning. Not sure which. Night." He glanced up, shading his eyes unnecessarily against a moon covered by a curtain of cloud. "Nice weather?" he ventured hopefully.

"What were you doing there?" asked James, folding his arms. His voice said, as clearly as if he'd stated out loud, that he was not fooled and nor was he letting this drop. Jack Sparrow was up to something and he was damned if he was going to find out what it was. He hadn't gone through all this effort in capturing him to let the pirate slip away from the noose now. Unfortunately, it seemed Jack had other intentions.

"Nothing," said Jack, with a very unconvincing air of innocence.

James cast his gaze down to the lifeboat. "What's that, then?"

"It's a boat," Jack explained, somewhat unhelpfully.

"I know it's a boat. I can see it's a boat. What I'm asking is, what is it doing over there and why is it untied, and what were you doing with it?"

There was a pause, filled only by the cry of some unknown seabird overhead. Jack carefully manoeuvred his legs off the longboat, rubbing them and wincing, before hoisting himself up to sit on the edge of the ship, swaying slightly.

"Maintenance," he said at last. There was something in his tone that faintly suggested, _I don't expect you to believe that, and I don't in fact believe it myself, and I think it would be better all round if you got on with whatever awful thing you're about to do and put us both out of our misery._

"Maintenance," James repeated. He still hadn't unfolded his arms.

"Yup," Jack agreed intelligently.

"Nothing to do with any half-brained escape attempts, then."

"None whatsoever."

"I see."

The mast creaked again.

"You do know I didn't believe a single word of that," James said conversationally. "Don't you?"

"Ah. Well, sort of."

"And I'm legally in my right to lock you up again in a cell that is bulletproof and resistant to lock-picking and just leave you there until we dock at Port Royal."

"Ah again. Part two of the previous "Ah". Do you even have any bullet-proof, escape-proof cells? I didn't think you did."

"We might," James said austerely, "for all you know."

"Then why didn't you lock me up in one of them when I first came on board?"

James had a strong temptation to say, "Ah". He resisted it. "We had our reasons."

"You're a very bad liar, you know."

"And you don't have permission to talk to me like that, either. Now tell me honestly (I know that's difficult for you) what you were attempting to accomplish with the use of that longboat."

Jack didn't answer for a moment.

"Sparrow, I asked you a question."

"That's _Captain _Sparrow, actually," said Jack, brightening. Here at last was a statement to which he could confidently reply. James rolled his eyes.

"We don't use honorary titles in regards to pirates," he stated coldly.

"Well, I'm being hung in a few days anyway, so you won't have to do it for very long," Jack reassured him. "Besides, I call you Commodore, don't I? Sometimes."

"That's different," James snapped.

"Why is it different?"

"Because being Commodore is something to be proud of, unlike piracy!" James was beginning to grow angry. This man was playing with him, toying with his mind. Ever since he'd strolled into Port Royal, rescued Norrington's fiancée before holding a gun to her head and finally exiting the scene in a blaze of glory, he had turned everything upside down. He caused mayhem wherever he went, and mayhem was something that Norrington had never been keen on. He preferred order, duty, rationale. However, none of those things could be counted on when Jack Sparrow was around.

But this time, the man didn't try a sarcastic retort, or laugh the remark off. He glanced up at James, and there was a strange expression in his eyes. "And what if I believe what I am is also something to be proud of?" he challenged.

"Then you'd be in a minority."

"I've been in a minority all my life, mate."

There was an uncomfortable silence. James wondered, not for the first time, why he didn't just walk away from this farce and call Gilette out on watch. Was it really necessary to stay here for much longer, exchanging insults with Sparrow? But the thought of returning the suffocating heat of his chamber was unappealing, and impelled him to remain, although – he had to admit – the company was less than desirable.

Jack broke the silence. "How's Elizabeth?" he enquired, with apparent sincerity.

"He's fine, I think. She appears to bear no ill effects from the regrettable experience she has endured."

"No screams? No vapours?" Jack enquired, a mischevious glint in his eyes.

"No," James replied coldly. "She isn't that sort of girl."

"I'd gathered that." Jack pondered for a moment or two. "And you'll be marrying her when you reach Port Royal?"

"Of course." _And she's off limits, _he added silently, _especially to you, so don't go getting any ideas._

Jack looked at him, his expression unreadable in the moonlight. "She doesn't love you, does she," he said quietly. It wasn't a question.

"I know she doesn't."

James was shocked how easily the words came to his lips. He'd known it for a long time now, he realised, but that didn't stop the sharp twinge that plucked at his chest whenever he thought of it. Astonishing, really, that knowledge of such magnitude could be stated so calmly, and held within his heart with such control. He'd seen the way she looked at that blacksmith, but it was no good – Will Turner was already forbidden to her, and she had already accepted James' proposal, although the deal had clearly been more along the lines of a business transaction, with no satisfaction allowed to either party in the deal. They'd paid the price for each other's life with the only coin they had. Oh God, how he wished it were within his power to give her anything she asked of him. But she wouldn't ask, he knew – and he couldn't find it within himself to offer.

"You know?" Jack asked incredulously, dragging him out of his thoughts.

"It wasn't difficult to work out," James said coldly. "I could see it in her eyes."

"But you're not going to call off the wedding."

"Obviously not."

He tilted his head on one side, raising his eyebrows. "And why's that, then?"

"I don't see how that's any of your business, Sparrow."

Jack rolled his eyes, but refrained for once, perhaps from tact, from pointing out his correct title. "The way I see it," he said, "if you go ahead and marry her, both of you will eventually be miserable – she will, because she'll still be pining after the whelp, and you will, because she doesn't love you back. How is this in any way a satisfactory arrangement?"

"It isn't," said James, and then added, much to his own surprise, "but it's the only arrangement I've got."

"Is that so?"

"At least I can keep her safe," James retorted, "which is more than you can do."

"I don't think you quite understand, Commodore." Jack faced him. "Elizabeth doesn't want to be kept safe. I've spent a good deal more time with your bonnie lass than you have in the past week, and that's one thing that's as clear as the bowsprit on a ship. Of the two of us, she's the one who should be the pirate."

"But – "

"No buts," Jack instructed him, placing one finger to her lips. "You say you can give Elizabeth the life she's always had, but have you – or her father, come to think of it – ever considered whether she enjoys the life she's always had? From what little she's told me, I'd wager a Spanish treasure ship that she hates it."

James stared blankly at Jack. He was remembering the countless times he'd thought how unsuited Elizabeth was for the life of a fine lady. It was what had first drawn him to her – that strange sense of wildness that nothing could stifle, not corsets, not fancy dresses. He almost smiled as he remembered the corset that had begun it all, how Elizabeth had tumbled over the edge of that wall before accepting his proposal. Oh, the irony.

"Elizabeth has never had to work a day in her life," he persisted doggedly. "She's never lacked any necessity. She couldn't handle anything else."

"Actually," Jack said, "I'd have to disagree with you there. She handled being marooned like a bloody pirate. No sobbing, no whining. Lots of bad language, though." He grinned. "But the hunger, the thirst, the threat of death, the fight to survive – she took them in her stride. And she was the one who came up with the plan that rescued us. Though if you ever tell her I said so, I will return from the grave and strangle you in your sleep with embroidery floss."

James raised his eyebrows. Somehow, he wasn't surprised at Elizabeth's reaction – he would have expected no less of her. "Why embroidery floss?" he enquired, offhandedly.

"Because it was the most ridiculous item I could think of," Jack explained, momentarily sidetracked. "Now don't interrupt."

James snorted.

"How many times do I have to tell you?" Jack continued, tacking firmly back to his original course. "You have to treat a fine lady like a ship. Don't assume you know what she should do. Don't try to tell her what is best for her. Let her tell you what she wants."

"Oh, what wisdom," James commented sardonically.

Jack waved an admonitory hand at him. "You give your bonnie lass her head. Don't be an idiot and let your next opportune moment slip by. You owe her the truth."

"But she can't marry Turner, either," James protested desperately. "Her father won't allow it." _I won't allow it. _He swallowed the words as they rose in his throat.

"In that case," Jack said quietly, fixing him with that dark gaze, "you have to ask yourself one very important question, mate. Which is more important to you: your happiness – or hers?"

James stared at him. For one long moment, neither of them seemed to breathe.

Then, with a cold shock, James roused himself. Sparrow had gone too far this time.

"Charming as this conversation has been, _Captain," _he said, standing and turning sharply, slipping effortlessly back into the mask of cold civility, "I'm afraid I have obligations that tear me from your side. I shall send Gilette out on watch. If you try to escape again, it shall be the worse for you."

He stepped briskly back across the deck, refusing to look back.

"And there I was thinking we were getting on rather well!" Jack called mockingly after him. "Remember what I said, Commodore. I know what I'm talking about."

"You know _nothing,"_ James Norrington flung back in a sudden rage, and with that, he retreated into his cabin, slamming the door behind him.

Till long past midnight, he sat awake, filing papers, writing letter after letter to the relatives of those deceased in the battle. Thank God this was the last one. At least he would be able to say that they died bravely, in combat, defending the lives of others. And he would never have admitted that it wasn't just the work that was disallowing him from the oblivion of sleep. Absentmindedly, he shuffled the paperwork for his next day's schedule. A name caught his eye, startling in its familiarity, and he flipped back through the pages.

Jack Sparrow. A pirate. One of that vile and dissolute group it had been his goal to eliminate from day one. His duty still demanded the man's execution.

Slowly, he reread the list of crimes of which Sparrow had been convicted, trying to regain that surety he felt the first time he placed him in chains. _Piracy, smuggling, impersonating an officer of the Spanish Royal Navy, impersonating a cleric of the Church of England._ The corner of Norrington' mouth quirked ever so slightly. What he wouldn't give to know the stories behind those last two. The moment of good humour was fleeting. The truth behind these charges would shortly be forever beyond human reach. He read on. _Sailing under false colours, arson, kidnapping, looting, poaching, brigandage, pilfering, depravity, depredation, and general lawlessness. _The list was shorter than he'd expected, but the length was still not to be sniffed at. However, Norrington couldn't help noticing the glaring absence of one charge. Murder.

Surely that was an oversight? The man could not have amassed such a record without once being convicted of murder. It did not matter to the law. Any one of those crimes with which Sparrow was actually charged carried the penalty of death. But it mattered to the commodore. If, indeed, the man was not a murderer, it left Norrington free to regret the necessity of the morrow's business. He wished he'd asked him while he had the chance. He knew now that gallows would stand between Elizabeth and himself forever, an upraised and flaming sword, as the look in her eyes when they met Will Turner's already did.

Silently, he cursed Jack Sparrow for ever entering their lives, even as he knew that if the pirate had not been there, Elizabeth would be dead and Barbossa would still have unimpeded power in the Caribbean. It galled James Norrington to be obliged to execute a man to whom he must also be eternally grateful. The list of debts they owed to Sparrow superimposed itself in shadowy script over the bold, black lines of the charges for which the pirate would soon answer with his undefended flesh.

A slender shaft of pale gray light sifted through the shutters. Outside his window, birds began their morning hymn. Dawn. One line of the text on his desk was illuminated: _And for these crimes you have been sentenced to be, on this day, hung by the neck until dead. May God have mercy on your soul._

May God have mercy on your soul, Jack Sparrow. May God have mercy on mine.


End file.
